


heard it through the grapevine

by affability



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 17:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14265984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affability/pseuds/affability
Summary: So, you realize that love isn't complicated after all. / Or, the progressing relationship of Maya and Lucas told through the perspective of Cory Matthews.





	heard it through the grapevine

**heard it through the grapevine**

_Synopsis_ : You realize that love isn't complicated after all. / Or, the progressing relationship of Maya and Lucas told through the perspective of Cory Matthews.

/

Lucas Friar is trouble.

Well, trouble for your daughter at the very least. This you conclude once you begin to notice the longing glimmer in the almond eyes of your eldest child whenever she sees him enter the classroom— _your_  classroom. It strikes a chord that spurs discontentment within the depths of your soul. She's barely thirteen—fourteen, if you squint—yet her cheeks blossom when Lucas meets her gaze and her giggles intensify when he compliments her while you seethe from the hallways, with arms crossed and narrowed eyes, burning a hole in the back of his head with your dagger-filled glares and hoping that he gets the message (which he never seems to—how did this kid end up winning that  _Scholar-Athlete_  award, again?). His effect on the female population of John Quincy Adams is reminiscent of the days that your elder brother ruled the halls of John Adams High School, back when he was bringing a girl home every other week and locking his bedroom doors to keep you out. Your stomach churns at this unpleasant thought and you purse your lips once more.

 _He must be stopped_.

So you take what seems to be the natural necessary step of precaution that any concerned parent would do in your situation—you enlist the help of your daughter's best friend, the marine-eyed blonde who often smirks instead of smiles, by luring her into the halls of the library after hours and gifting her with her very own smartphone and her own set of color pencils. There, she blows out a long breath once you've explained your plan and raises an eyebrow.

"You want me to spy on my best friend?" she questions, fiddling with the tassels on the gift. "On  _your daughter_ , who, by the way, you probably should trust more."

"Oh, I trust her," you assure her. "It's Friar that I don't trust. And anyway, I just need you to tell me when they get a little too close to comfort."

"Why'd you choose to give me this?" she asks as she uncovers the box of color pencils. "And why'd you give me this phone? Farkle's probably better at this kind of stuff—all tech-savvy and whatnot. I don't even know how to use this thing properly."

"You'll figure it out," you assure her, with a hand on her shoulder. "Besides, you appear to be the only girl left that hasn't fallen prey to his so-called "Southern charm". I need an objective party."

She smirks, visibly fighting the urge to laugh. "You do realize that Huckleberry Friar causes no harm to anyone, right? He's about as dangerous as a butterfly, stuck on a marshmallow, on a hot summer day." As she begins to familiarize herself with the phone, her pink lips curve into a smile once she figures that regardless of whether she chooses to oblige or not, you've gifted her with the device. Then, the blonde draws out a long breath once more, the guarded aura that she holds together so well vanishes. Now, she is solemnly quiet, and only breaks the silence to mumble, "They're just friends."

"Believe me," you insist, with a sigh. " _I know the story_."

The look in her eye that arrives after those words leave your mouth strikes another chord—one that you can't understand. You don't quite realize that he might be trouble for your other daughter, too.

_/_

It starts with the whispers.

You allow yourself to rationalize it by reminding yourself that they're just kids and that you were young once, too—you do, quite fondly, remember the days that Shawn would disrupt your concentration by leaning over to tell you a joke during Feeny's History classes, or the rare occasions that Topanga would break her focus to grin in your direction whenever Mr. Turner said something that amused the two of you. And, either way, the Hart girl  _is_  known for her short attention span within school compound, so it really shouldn't surprise you that she partakes in this.

It starts when you switch her and Riley's seating positions, leaving the blonde in front of the Texan boy and Farkle behind the brunette, and she needs him to get Farkle's attention to supply her with notes, or when she wants to convey something to Riley and needs the Friar boy's help in capturing your daughter's attention. You interrupt her when you can, but often let them do their thing, understanding that it is all well-intentioned. You pride yourself in allowing your classroom to contain a freer atmosphere than the ones Feeny dominated during your high school days—you decide that you will allow them room to converse once in a while, to allow them to feel like your classroom is, in fact, their second home.

But then, the looks emerge.

It starts subtly—as the weeks go by, you find that Hart girl often turns around and gestures to the Friar boy behind her in the middle of your lesson. He often responds with a smirk, or a coy smile and she'll turn around sporting a similar expression. It doesn't faze you, really; however, it does intrigue you, which leads you to wonder just what it is that the two exclusively find amusement in. However, these moments are so few and far in between that you often forget they ever exist, until, they start becoming more apparent. The looks have turned into whispers, often incomprehensible ones. It often leads to muffled laughter—and it's  _distracting_. How are you supposed to teach in peace when you are constantly faced with the grating chatter and lowered cackles whenever you turn around?

It often goes like this—

"Class, when a knight is killed in battle, a certain sign is put on his grave. Can anyone tell me what that sign means?"

And then _, it happens_.

"Rust in peace," you hear, faintly, a voice distinctively male but low in volume, and unmistakably  _Friar_. Only you and Maya pick it up—it's only the two of you that ever seem to pick it up—but your reactions differ. Her expression is a mixture of frustration and amusement; she rolls her head back, turns around and faces none other than Lucas Friar, who laughs, and her mouth curves slowly by the way. You sigh deeply.

"No more whispering during class," you finally announce, glaring daggers at the blonde-haired teens who merely grin gleefully in response.

That's when the note-passing starts.

_/_

Middle school dances have become a lot more  _interesting_ , to say the least.

You spend the second duration of the Father-Daughter dance guiding Maya through the steps and watching the twinkle in her eye when you do, she wraps her little fingers around your palm and stands on your feet, and the both of you sway to the rhythm. In that moment you are reminded that she is yours, just like Riley, you watched her grow and develop, and your heart swells up with pride when she looks up, meets your gaze and smiles softly. It's a moment of pure bliss, and you cherish it.

And then, when her grip loosens from yours and the dance is over, the serendipity is removed from the atmosphere. Enter Lucas Friar, in all his cowboy-hat-donning glory, offering his hand to Riley when you least expect it—he circles his arm around her waist when she takes it and she smiles sheepishly in return, her cheeks blossoming to a darker shade of red.

"Leave them be," instructs Topanga, holding on to your arm as you inch closer to the dance floor.

You reside at the refreshments corner, sulking as you chug down your (third?) dose of fruit punch. Sighing into your red cup, you observe as your daughter maintains a distance from Friar—she places her hands on his shoulder, he places his on her hips, and they are far apart. A sort of comfort looms over you, which causes your wife to smile subtly as she retreats to fulfil her other chaperone duties.

"The hat's just for me, isn't it?"

It is the Hart girl, while being dipped by Farkle, who says this. Her tone is sharp and spunky, and Lucas responds with an equally snarky grin. Then, she smirks. "You really put thought into our little game, don't you?"

"I actually  _do_."

It's all smiles from there—bright-eyed glances, tongue-in-cheek remarks, roses placed in between pearly whites, and fondly toasting to a better school year ahead.

When the last batch of students begins clearing out, you assist the janitor in his effort to tidy the area, so you spend the remnants of your evening collecting tossed plastic red cups and disposing unfinished appetizers. It's relatively uneventful—Riley kisses you on the cheek and tells you she'll be waiting with Farkle for his town car to arrive since it's his first time staying out past his usual bedtime of seven-fifteen and she doesn't want him to pass out in the middle of the school, so you're left alone in the middle of the semi-empty hall.

"So, just what am I supposed to do with this rose exactly?" she asks Lucas from across the room, her combat boot pressed against the white walls as she leans against it. Her fingers twirl the rubicund flower in question, a shade that matches her lipstick. For a moment you wonder if it was intentional. "Plant it in my garden and hope it wins a blue ribbon at the annual county fair?"

"You do whatever it is that your pretty lil' heart desires, ma'am," he replies, tipping his head. She purses her lips, oceanic lenses flaring.

"Well, aren't you sweet?" is all she says as she leers at him, her voice is dry. A short pause, and then, "you still aren't playing this game right."

"Oh," he says, inching towards her. "I think I am."

_/_

You wonder how you've allowed them to turn your house into a battlefield.

Initially it was just Maya, who started frequenting your house as a child—now, that, you don't mind. She's like a surrogate sister to Riley, plus, topped with her snarky combats and witty remarks, the dinner table is never a bore. She lights up your life. Also, it definitely helped that, in the simpler days, she spent a majority of time in Riley's room—at the bay window, on the bed, or simply on the floor. This means that Riley is constantly lured away from the TV while Auggie is sent to his bedroom to get an early rest. And as for Topanga, she often works overtime at the office. This leaves the television available for you—it's a safe haven from the drama-filled days of your life. You comfortably plop onto the couch, grab a hearty bowl of popcorn, tune into your favorite movie and peacefully unwind. Eventually, Topanga will walk in halfway through and join you on the couch and you will both resign for the day in pure bliss. It is the idyllic way to spend your weekend evening.

 _Now_ , however, your couch is occupied by those two.

Just like everything else in your life.

They come over in the middle of the day, nonetheless, on a  _Saturday_  while you were in the middle of watching an episode  _Melrose Place_. Gone are the days of common courtesy.

The Friar boy tells you, "Farkle and Riley are gonna be at the new  _Future Leaders of the United States_  club all throughout the weekend and we have a joined project due on Monday morning, so she told us to start anyway and wait for her and Farkle to get back."

You scoff, because, who would initiate that ridiculous club and which teacher would assign them such a content-heavy project in the beginning of the semester, anyway? Oh yeah, it was you,  _on both counts_. So, then you sigh deeply and let them through the door.

Which prompts them to, in true Viking fashion, invade your couch. They plump down and set up laptops and sprawl their loose-leaf papers around the area.

And you seethe from the kitchen table.

You eventually decide to run errands and buy groceries, assuming that they be gone in an hour or so. However, whenever you return, they're  _still_  there—still in  _your_  apartment, still on  _your_  couch. Their actions are primarily filled with light teasing, push-and-pull remarks, and then they do partake in research. Eventually Riley and Farkle do return and join the two, spending some time to discuss the events of the day before discussing the matters of the project and different strategies to approach it, before they all retire for the night. This goes on for the next consecutive days.

One particular day, though, you find that not only are they still there after you've done your grocery shopping. Now, it is only Maya that's sprawled on the couch while the Friar boy is on the kitchen counter preparing dinner. It's quite a sight, really—he's donned your old  _Kiss the Chef_  apron, skilfully chopping onions while the Hart girl cheers mirthfully from across the room. Neither of them notices your return.

"And now," says Maya, purposefully lowering her voice to mimic the quintessential sports commentator, adding a deep Southern drawl for special effect. "By George, Huckleberry J. Friar chops the onions with such mastery—why, I haven't seen such skill, such form, in  _years_."

"Quit it, Hart," he says, not meeting her gaze, but he says this with a smile. She smirks, propping up beside him and prodding him with an index finger tauntingly. It seems oddly reminiscent of the schoolyard days where you'd tug on Topanga's pigtails while she would be busy attempting to build the perfect sandcastle in the sandbox.

"It seems the culinary expert is recreating the famous Texan chili masterpiece," she continues. She gets up, leans over and takes an especially long whiff of the sizzling meal, pulling back and heaving a long sigh. "Why, I haven't seen such dexterousness since the legendary Winter Decathlon of 1988—"

"—you weren't even  _born_  in 1988," he interrupts.

"Silence!" she commands, flinging a good amount of tomato sauce in his direction, which lands on the square of his face. "Speak only when spoken to." That does it—he drops his cooking utensils on the counter, turns around, grabs her by the waist and smothers tomato sauce as well as garlic powder onto the square of her forehead. She yelps, continuing to cover his face with the paste, and wiggles free from his grasp.

You stand at the door— _still unnoticed_.

The blonde girl laughs,  _genuinely_  laughs, when Lucas begins finding ways to dodge the tomato slices she attempts to throw at his direction, one by one. This doesn't work too well considering he's the school's star baseball player, and he knows his way around redirecting objects that are thrown at him. A good amount of them are flung right back at her.

You wonder how long it'll last.

He raises his hands up in surrender from behind the kitchen counter and walks towards her, signalling a truce. They're silent now—pin drop silent—as he approaches her. She raises an eyebrow and he blows out a breath.

"Truce," he proposes.

She entertains the idea, her eyes fixated on his extended hand. She takes it, slowly, and then instantaneously pulls him closer to her. He's caught off-guard, you can tell, even though you feel as if you are acres away. She smirks, inching towards him, meeting his green-eyed gaze and tilting her head to the right. Then, she tiptoes so the two of them are eye-to-eye (and nose-to-nose), before she leans forward. Lifting up her wooden spoon, she smothers his mouth with the remnants of the tomato sauce.

"I don't play to get even," she says, swiping the spoon across his cheek in one swift, fluid motion as if his face was her canvass. "I play to win."

"Well," he whispers to her. "Guess we have that in common."

You clear your throat and they both instantaneously whip their heads in your direction once they are made aware of your presence.

"You're gonna have to clean that up, you know," you say, gesturing to the spilled tomato sauce, stream of flung jalapenos, and salt that's strewn across the kitchen floor.

"We know," they deadpan in unison.

_/_

"Hey, Maya," asks Lucas, trailing behind the blonde. "Are you alright?"

"I'm  _fine_ ," she snaps, as she enters your classroom.

This is the new routine, you quickly find. The nature of her, now, much harsher tones is admittedly strange; however, it is nothing you haven't seen before. Her glacial replies and snarky comebacks appear to be at an all-time rise and Lucas, among others, often finds himself subjected to this newly-heightened behaviour. This, you notice, even from the back of your humble desk and you initially dismiss it as a temporary result of an extraordinarily bad week, until you notice that it has slowly become the norm. Maya has turned considerably colder to everyone, really. Her sharp-tongued responses, her narrowed-eyed glares and her constantly folded arms have proven that. She only ever bites her tongue when Riley calls her attitude into question, but you know that it cannot possibly last long. There's a reason you always likened that girl to a volcano—her explosive nature is the only predictable aspect of her being.

"Maya," calls Riley as enters the room, her tone colored with frustration. "Maybe you should calm down."

" _Riles_ ," she says, stretching her name with pangs of vexation.

"We know you're going through a hard time, okay. We get it."

"No, you—"

"It's  _okay_ , we all have hard times."

She opens her mouth to respond, but she quickly closes it. Instead she unfolds her arms, shoves her books into her schoolbag before slinging it over her right shoulder and promptly getting up.

"Maya, where are you going?" you ask her. She storms out of the classroom without much of a response. You gesture for Riley to follow her, but Lucas stands up instead.

"If you don't mind, Sir," he tells you. "Or you, Riley, I think I'll talk to her."

You turn to the Matthews girl to observe her, and she nods slowly before gesturing him to leave. The class looms in uncomfortable silence as soon as he leaves. You meet Riley's almond gaze as Farkle reaches out to rub her shoulder comfortingly.

"I'll make sure everything's alright," you assure her. "Class, spend this time reading through your assignments, okay?"

And so, you turn on your heel and make a beeline for Maya's locker—only to find that she's not there. You search the art studios and she's nowhere to be found. Frankly, the school cannot possibly be as wide as it feels as you roam throughout the different rooms and hallways to find the two elusive students. You begin tiring of walking halfway through your journey, stopping by the lockers to breathe in and restore much-needed oxygen to your lungs. As you lean in, you hear the unmistakable pitter-patter of combat boots and you  _know_  Maya is in within reach. So, you gather up as much air as you can before you resume your search. Before you know it, you see a messy wave of blonde hair and notice that the Hart girl is sitting on a bench near the student lounge. You heave a sigh of relief and take a step forward to approach her, until you see the Texan boy emerge from a nearby room and softening his once hard-edged expression when he meets her gaze. With a sharp intake of breath, Lucas clears his throat and speaks.

"Maya, I know."

His voice is firm yet soft, etched with sympathy and it causes you to freeze in your tracks and cringe. Memory serves that gentleness is the last thing Maya wants to hear when she's upset.

"What?"

"I know you're taking things hard because your dad is in town and he hasn't tried to contact you. I get that you're upset."

"No, Huckleberry, that's the thing— _you don't get it_ ," she snarls, her tone coated with fury. " _None_  of you get it. I'm so sick of you guys acting like you do because news flash, you guys may have issues with your parents now and then but at least they're there. At least they stick around for you. I don't know what that feels like because I've never even gotten a damn birthday card."

"Maya—"

"I don't need a lecture from you, all right? I've got Mr. Matthews for that. He's due any minute now."

"Maya, I'm not here to lecture you."

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm here to tell you that what you're feeling is okay. It's normal to lash out, especially when you've kept things bottled up for so long."

"Well that's quite the deduction, Dr. Phil."

"I'm  _serious_ ," he insists, inching towards her. "You always dismiss these sorts of things and write them off as irrelevant. I'm not trying to tell you that I understand what you're going through because you're right—I don't. The only thing I do know is that I'm just glad you're expressing your feelings."

"Well… thank you?"

The silence ensues for a while.

"So, you're telling me," she begins, inching closer to the blonde Friar boy. "That I'm given a free pass to vent all my emotional frustration on you because it's the one time a year my daddy issues are on full throttle?"

"Pretty much," he confirms.

"You're serious?"

"Hit me with your best shot."

"Okay, well," she fumbles, clearly frazzled. "You honestly need to chill."

" _I'm_  the one that needs to chill?"

"With that thing you do," she clarifies, crossing her arms. "The way you act like you know everything about me, like you know me better than I know myself. You don't; you just have an ego the size of Australia."

"Fair point, go on."

"And  _another thing_ —do you own anything that's not in blue? I mean, we get it, your fragile masculinity is upheld by your act of broadcasting to the world that you like the "manly" hues of cerulean, navy, azure, sapphire, and indigo. That's the only variety in your wardrobe choices. Your closet is about as diverse as the original cast of the  _Brady Bunch_."

"Yikes."

"And," she says, meeting his gaze. "Thank you for checking up on me."

"Feel better?" he asks her, a smile lingering in his tone. He offers his hand and she looks at it, staggered, for a while before she gingerly takes it. Lucas tightens his grip on her palm.

"A little," she admits, her voice is now no louder than a soft whisper. "Make no mistake, Ranger Rick. This doesn't change anything between us—I'm just off my rocker today."

"I know."

"I'm not gonna drastically change my spots, alright? I'm still me."

"I'm glad."

"Hey Huckleberry?" she asks, her voice softened.

"Yes?"

"Don't let go just yet."

"I won't."

You aren't quite sure why, but this exchange strikes  _something_  within you. It reminds you of when you would too find comfort in the walls of your middle school. So, you figure that it's probably best to leave them alone—you decide that when Maya's ready she will come to you. And she does eventually return to the classroom (class had already ended twenty-five minutes ago at that point, but you knew she'd be back, anyway). When she arrives, she does so with a taco in her right hand and a crumpled tissue paper in another, her mascara slightly smudged (however she'd deny it, to hell and back, if you so dared to point it out) and you are silent as she apologizes for stepping out of line and attributes half of her behavior to hormonal imbalance (which you raise an eyebrow at). When she finishes, she examines your expression and winces ever so slightly.

"Are you going to give me detention?"

"No," you say, "just a warning."

She heaves a sigh of relief, and then says, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," you respond, squeezing her hand, before dismissing her for the day.

When she leaves, you notice that Lucas is waiting for her by the door.

_/_

On the night that Riley leaves for her weekend in Texas, you find Maya's sketchbook under your couch.

She probably forgot it, you think, as you slowly flip the pages.

Initially it feels wrong, even though you've always been a snoop (and for a moment, you do half-blame Shawn for both normalizing and encouraging this behavior during your tender years). It's no real surprise, however, to find that Maya's doodles are largely made up of Riley-centric sketches. Mostly fully-colored: some water-colored, some fully painted, and the rest shaded in with color pencils (and for a second you wonder if she used the ones you gifted her with a year ago). All the sketches ultimately all sing a similar tune: they all display your daughter's optimism and hopeful nature. You pause when you come across a strikingly different sketch. It's a doodle of a boy that is donned in bright blue flannel (the shirt, oddly enough, is the only part of the sketch that's colored in), whose arms are raised as he swings a rope in the air with one hand and tips his cowboy hat with the other.

_That's what I seem like to you?_

You instantly recognize Lucas's penmanship below the sketch.

_I almost drew you as a lamb in Mary's farm. Be thankful, Heehaw._

And the lopsided handwriting tells you that it belongs to Maya.

_I am._

It doesn't take you long to realize that a good amount of Maya's sketchbook contains doodles of Lucas too; many of them with him typically donning cowboy hats, riding horses, and playing rope tricks. They don't seem too complicated; in fact, many of them look like rushed sketches (although that doesn't take the impeccable quality pervasive in every Hart sketch away). You also notice that almost all of them are equipped with little notes from the Texan boy underneath; mostly teasing and good-natured, but a good half of them contain genuine compliments and  _you are really good, Maya_ 's and while these good-natured words do not come without half-hearted  _thank you_  that were promptly followed by sarcastic comments (she was never used to accepting compliments, you recall) you do recognize that they do serve as a source of inspiration for the blonde Hart (if not, why would these sketches be so consistent throughout the book?). It is also, you come to realize, the only part of Maya's sketchbook that doesn't include your daughter. For a moment, you wonder if Riley even knows. However, you quickly brush the thought away once you are reminded that the two girls are the best of friends and there is no plausible reason for her not to know—since when has the Maya intentionally kept anything from her? And  _why_  would she?

You glance at the sketchbook one more time, suddenly the prospect of looking through any further content feels horribly invasive. So, you close the book and quickly place it in the position you found it.

Well, if anything, that certainly explains what all that surreptitious note-passing was about.

_/_

In hindsight, you really should have seen it coming.

The signs did point to the possibility of the teases and nicknames being more than just two friends who have the tendency to push each other's buttons. It  _does_  make sense, no matter how much you (and Riley, initially) deny it, but the push-and-pull dynamic seems all too familiar to you as Riley describes the epiphany that crept upon her when she spent the last forty-eight hours in the Friar boy's homeland. It's a quiet Sunday night when she tells you this, she asks you and Topanga to join her at the kitchen table and the way she rubs her fingers together indicates that she hasn't been taking the recent news too well. Still, she puts up a strong front, pausing so often to offer a small smile.

"I think that's why she makes fun of him," she says, her velvety voice hushed so as to refrain from waking the youngest Matthews from his peaceful slumber. The dark-haired girl doesn't meet either of your sympathetic gazes; instead she chooses to keep her eyes fixated on her folded hands. "I mean, it does explain a lot."

"So… what did you do?"

"I encouraged her," she murmurs, a little hesitantly. "I think her biggest fear was that I would hold her feelings against her. I could never do that, though, and I made sure that she knew that. She needs to feel whatever she feels."

"And what does she feel exactly?"

"I think that's something she has to figure out on her own. I can't speak for her."

"Well, that's true," states Topanga, waving a curtain of blonde hair away from her face. "And how does Lucas feel?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"What about you?" you add, quickly. "How do you feel?"

"…I don't know."

She returns to her bedroom shortly after, after kissing both you and Topanga on the forehead. Topanga blows out a breath into the crisp night air and places her head in the crook of your neck, sighing deeply. The two of you stay like that for a while, basking in the silence of the night as listening to the sound of both of your heartbeats. "I wish we could fix this for her," you do say eventually.

"Me too," she concurs as you begin running your hands through her hair. "But we wanted her to have her own experiences and you don't get to do that without getting hurt along the way."

You fall asleep that way, holding her hand in the stillness of the night.

.

.

"So, am I in trouble?"

This is the first thing Lucas asks you when you call him into your classroom after school a week later. He is careful not to maintain eye contact for too long as he scans the area nervously upon realization that he is the only one in the room (see: no eyewitnesses). You shake your head and gesture for him to sit down, which he does, but fiddles with his thumbs constantly. You get up and sit down on your desk, leaning forward in an effort to shorten the distance between the two of you.

"Sadly, I can't punish you for dating—if that's what you're doing—the two most important girls in my life. School board won't allow it."

"I'm not dating them," he tells you this, a little too quickly. You narrow your eyes suspiciously and he sighs. "It's a little more complicated than that now."

"But you like the both of them, don't you?"

The Friar boy nods slowly. "I do."

"Which one do you like more?"

"I… I don't know."

History certainly has a way of repeating itself, you conclude.

"I know how hard these sorts of things can be, I was in a similar situation before," you inform him, folding your hands. "It was with two people I cared for very much. It wasn't easy initially and it caused a lot of pain, not to mention I was older than you are now at that point. I don't want to see that happen to the three of you."

"Was one of them Mrs. Matthews?"

"Yes."

"Wait, was the other one Shawn?" he asks earnestly. "That would explain a lot."

"No!" you state, narrowing your eyes into slits.

"Sorry sir."

" _Anyway_ ," you say, stretching the word intently. "I'm just saying; you need to be careful. I don't want either girl getting hurt. Riley is drained and Maya's not as tough as she appears to be."

"I'm aware, sir."

"That's good," you state, folding your arms. "Not many people are."

"I would  _never_  want to cause either of them pain. Frankly, I don't think I could live with myself if I did."

Then, you meet his emerald gaze. His stare is firm as he conveys this—and for a brief second, you notice that he has dropped the niceties to bring his point home. And you allow a half-smile to steal your lips. Perhaps you've misjudged him for too long. "Well," you say. "I sure hope you deliver. There must be something good about you, in light of everything that happened."

He chuckles and you're fully smiling now, the guarded aura of the room diminished. It's a fleeting moment, but you're thankful for it.

_/_

"We should order something, so we don't fall asleep in the middle of Geography homework," Maya suggests.

"So,  _you_  don't fall asleep," corrects Lucas, earning a glare from the blonde Hart.

She attempts to grab the collar of his shirt, but he grabs her arm midway, which leads to a mid-air arm wrestle. It's astounding, really—the lack of concern for personal space between them, the lack of acknowledgement, even. It's almost as if it's second nature to them: the hand-brushing, the whispers, the shirt-grabs, the shoulder brushes, the hair-ruffles, and the occasional into the air lift-ups (courtesy of Lucas, clearly).

"I win," she declares, her arm dominating his.

"Everyone's stronger than me."

The bakery closes in exactly forty-eight minutes (you know this for sure because you're constantly checking), and it's almost completely emptied. Topanga's got a big case out at the other side of the city, it is Katy's day off and so you are left in charge. Earlier, you hoped to be able to pack things up in due time and perhaps even take an early leave and find some time to yourself (which comes few and far in between these days). And, as usual, your daughter and her group of friends choose to frequent the bakery on Sunday evenings—this usually drags out till night-time, where they spend the evening harping on their teenage woes, spending some time finishing their homework, and catching up on revision. You tap your fingers impatiently from behind the counter as you feel any previous hope of closing up early disintegrate with every passing minute.

"We should order the  _Cheese Supreme_." suggests Lucas.

" _Mystery Mould_ ," argues Maya. "Who doesn't love a surprise?"

"I don't."

You look up from the cash register, after recounting the daily earnings for the third time (it has become second nature to you, taking extra precautions to ensure you don't mess up—something you clearly have a knack for). You notice that the Texan boy is now assisting Riley with her French homework (you thank your lucky stars because Heaven knows the most you got out of your French lessons was the ability to describe a complete McDonald's menu), Riley is taking a tapping her pen rhythmically (she always does this when she's concentrating), Farkle quietly speeds through his Chemistry assignments, and Zay has halted his AP Literature essay to resume playing  _Rock, Paper and Scissors_  with Smackle who fiddles with her black-rimmed glasses as she concurrently finishes up on her AP Biology essay. The raven-haired girl stops to correct Farkle on his assignment, using her right hand to point the error and using her left to continue her semi-intense battle with Zay. She wins the game and Farkle corrects his mistakes, and both boys accept their respective defeats somewhat begrudgingly.

It's not long before Smackle and Farkle retire for the evening and Zay follows suit (murmuring something about Vanessa visiting town and him having to look his best in order for his strategy to win her back to work). This leaves Riley, Maya and Lucas alone together. Tension clouts the air as Maya pretends to concentrate on quadratic equations, Lucas drowns himself in his World History textbook and Riley excuses herself to the washroom after she tires of attempting to differentiate masculine and feminine French nouns.

The silence is pervasive as you redirect your attention to organizing the cash register.

"It's too quiet," you hear Maya state. Still, you choose to devote your time re-assessing the dollar bills.

"Well that's good because that means we can concentrate better."

"I need some noise to work well."

"Well, I'll just play some music from your phone then."

"No, I don't think that's such a good—hey!"

You look up to see that, in a series of unlikely events, the Hart girl has been toppled over the Friar boy, who has successfully acquired her phone and is now rapidly searching for her music library.

"How do you know my passcode?"

"Easy guess; you're more predictable than you think. I'll just put your Spotify playlist on shuffle, so we can work in peace."

"I don't think you should—"

She is cut off by the sound of melodious guitar strumming that is swiftly accompanied by a deep, throaty voice with a strong Southern twang.

"Oh my god," he whispers, aghast. "Josh Turner? You listen to Josh Turner?"

"There must be some sort of mistake," she responds, without missing a beat.

"That's a little hard to believe since this song is specifically listed under 'favorites'."

"Please just—"

" _Lock them doors and turn the lights down low_ ," he boastfully sings along. She winces.

"I don't know why I—"

" _Put some music on that's soft and slow_."

"Please stop."

" _Baby, we ain't got no place to go_.  _I hope you understand_."

He's gone over to her booth now, almost as if he's  _serenading_  her. You fully expect Maya to grab the phone away from the Friar boy, or punch his arm, or something, but she doesn't. You watch in bemusement.

" _I been thinkin' 'bout this all-day long_."

"Dude I swear—"

" _Never felt a feeling quite this strong_."

"You'll lose all feeling in your arm if you continue," she sharply interjects, pointing an accusatory finger at him. However, her threat is weakened by the fact that her face has now transformed in to a darker shade of crimson and this does not go unnoticed by Lucas. His grin broadens, and she purses her lips in response. The two of them are locked in an intense staring contest—her marine eyes narrowed into slits, almost as if she's daring him to continue, while his emerald eyes are wide and bright as he refuses to break his gaze.

" _Just to be your man_ ," he finishes.

She grabs the phone instantaneously and presses the shuffle button once more.

"That," he begins. "That was a  _country_  song."

"Yep I am aware."

"You have a country song on your playlist."

"Yes – I know, I was there."

"So, it doesn't repulse you nearly as much as I thought it would."

"Let's get this straight: I'm not a Miranda Lambert-loving, Johnny Cash-quoting, Dolly Parton album tooting fan okay."

"That's not unlike the rest of us."

"It's just that one song, alright? See  _I Can't Get No Satisfaction_  is playing now, that's more my style."

"So why do you have this one particular song?"

"My mom used to play it all the time when I was little," she finally explains, tapping her pen. "She'd dance to it and even mime out the guitar strumming. I don't know; the song is a nice reminder of a time before everything went to hell. So, this is the only exception."

"Our moms would like each other, then."

She scoffs, "maybe."

And that's it – there's where the conversation ends. Riley returns from the washroom and plops herself next to Maya, and the silence resumes. It is only temporarily broken when homework-related questions are asked, and the Hart girl avoids meeting the Friar boy's gaze the entire time. So then, you resign yourself to finishing up your work at the counter and getting ready to pack up. You look at your watch; ten minutes left till closing time.

"Mr. Matthews?" calls Lucas. "Is there any more of that  _Mystery Mould_  left?"

"You're in luck," you say. "I've got the last batch right over here."

"We'll take some."

And when you look over, you see the corners of Maya's mouth curve into a half-smile as she meets his gaze.

_/_

Ski Lodges will continue to haunt you persistently, you decide.

You enter the cabin and take in the wooden walls, memories washing over you in waves. The acorn-colored walls have remained intact and the floors are just as warm as you remember them to be. The place certainly seems gloomier, from what you remember, and the skylight doesn't nearly bleed through the windowsills as strongly as it once did at the crack of dawn. Still, it continues to exude a certain cozy ambiance that you once found comfort in. Whether or not Topanga shares your sentiments remains unknown, she walks in at the brink of equanimity as she makes way for Lucas and Maya who are carrying an injured Riley carefully, her placed between the two. After quick chiding between both you, Topanga and her friends for her carelessness, Riley insists that she is okay—she swears that she has survived worse before, and when she reminds you all of the days of her catastrophic cheerleader try-outs, you nod upon the realization that the brunette is indeed a tough cookie. You squeeze her hand after giving her a hug.

"Same thing happened to me when I came here last," you eventually tell her when the two of you are alone. The corner of her glossed mouth curves to a half-smirk.

"Shocker," she responds, teasingly. You ruffle her russet locks before leaving to chaperone the rest of the kids.

So, there you all are—exploring what the tour guide proudly dubs as the Great Outdoors. Your legs wobble as you continue to hike down the designated trail, marvelling over hundred-year-old trees and historic lakes, often stopping to admire the magnificent hues of orange and auburn as acres of bare trees and piles of fallen leaves are displayed before you. The serenity that lingers within the air calms you as you breathe in the crisp mountain air.

"Farkle!" yells Zay.

The brunet boy has evidently gone off trail; speeding through the plethora of fallen leaves in what appears to be an effort to follow a creature. He promptly slips on a damp leaf, falls and holds onto a tree branch. He is swinging off the edge of the cliff and he cries out in despair, "Help!"

You freeze in your tracks, instructing the tour guide to garner professional assistance.

"Hold on, Farkle. We're getting help."

Still, you barely get the words out before another roaring voice is heard. You hear Lucas yell " _Maya_!" from behind you with a ferocity that stuns you and the rest of the students alike. Before you know it, a messy wave comprising of two blond braids swoops past you. The Hart girl is full on speeding towards the Minkus boy. She crouches over when she reaches him so that she is face-to-face with the brunet boy, carefully prying his hands from the branch. He winces and cries out in fear.

"Trust me?" asks Maya, her voice uncharacteristically soft. Farkle nods slowly and Maya offers him a small smile before promptly lifting him up. She carefully adjusts his position and carries him piggy-back style off the cliff as she propels him to safety. He clings onto her shoulders with a tightness that causes you to wonder if he is unintentionally strangling his blonde saviour. Still, she shows no level of discomfort when she places him on the ground and returns him to Smackle, who is, by the way, ferociously clinging onto Lucas's left arm for dear life.

"Are you alright?" you feverishly ask, scanning the Minkus boy for scars or injuries. He nods quickly.

"I'm okay, sir," he insists.

"Thank goodness you're okay!" exclaims Smackle, swiftly breaking her grip on the Friar boy to embrace Farkle in a warm hug. He circles her waist and breathes a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness for Maya," says Farkle, looking at the Hart girl in a moment of sheer gratitude. "You saved my life."

"All in a day's work," she replies, rubbing his shoulder. "You do realize you owe me big time now."

"I do," he responds earnestly. "I owe you everything. What's mine is yours."

"That includes your trust fund, right?" she jokes, incurring a laugh from the Minkus boy.

"Farkle, man, don't you ever scare me like that again," proclaims Zay, running over to give Farkle a light punch on the shoulder. "I don't care how rare that moth is, it's not worth it."

"I won't," promises Farkle.

"You're awfully quiet there, Butch Cassidy," remarks Maya, turning to face Lucas. "Aren't you happy that our favorite boy genius is alive and well?"

"Maya," he says, voice hardened, and arms sternly crossed. "Do you realize you could have been killed?"

There it is – the question that stuns the group of five and the other surrounding students into silence.

"I wasn't thinking about myself," she counters, gesturing to the Minkus boy. "I was thinking about Farkle and how if we didn't do anything soon he'd be a goner."

"You went off trail," states Lucas blankly. "You could have  _died_. God, Maya it's like you never know when to stop."

"That's enough, everybody," you interject instantly. "It's been a long day, so time to go back to the cabin."

With little protest, the students follow suit and you trail behind.

.

.

"Are you still mad?" she asks him, her voice hushed. When her query is met with stone-cold silence, her tone grows stern. "Bucky, you better talk to me."

Maya says this to Lucas in the front of the Mount Sun Lodge fireplace. These words promptly awaken you from the peaceful slumber you previously fell into while you were waiting for Topanga to return with the pancakes and hot chocolates she left to make for the two of you in the dining hall (you originally offered to do it, but she insisted and you obliged, and now you're wishing that you didn't). You shift in your seat and check the time on your phone:  _eleven forty-six p.m._  With a sigh, you skim through the Lodge catalogue, hoping its contents will lull you to sleep once again. You momentarily wonder if Topanga would be on board with purchasing a pair of matching acorn-shaped seats. Perhaps you should run it by her when she returns from the dining hall. You observe the seats on sale once again and notice that it has the words  _Courtesy of Mount Sun Lodge_  embroidered on the side of both chairs.

Perhaps you should not. You attempt to fall asleep once again.

"You didn't think it through."

His tone is firm when he says this, but his voice is soft.

"I  _did_  think it through," she argues fervently. "And I wish you'd stop saying that I didn't. I already told you—Farkle would've been seriously injured at best, or gone, at worst. What else was I supposed to do? I had to break the rules to help him, so that's what I did."

"I know," he says, sighing deeply. "That's the problem; it was such a 'Maya' thing to do."

You open an eye. This doesn't bode well for young Lucas.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asks, her voice getting significantly higher with fury. "What is a 'Maya' thing to do? Is it screwing up? Or is it hurting someone? Why don't you enlighten me?"

"It's being selfless," he retaliates, her immediate silence indicating that he's caught her off-guard. "Of course, you'd do the completely selfless thing and put your life on the line to save one of your best friends. Of course, you'd do that without even considering the possibility that you might get hurt in the process. The second I saw him hanging there, I  _knew_  you'd go after him. And you did."

"That's why you're mad?" she poses, crossing her arms. "You're mad because I did what you expected me to do?"

"I'm mad because you're completely willing to do things at your own expense," he explains, gulping, "which is ultimately at  _my_  expense."

"What?"

"You could've gotten hurt, at best," he echoes her earlier sentiments, voice now no louder than a whisper. "Killed, at worst, and that scared the hell out of me. I guess that's why I got so upset." He chuckles lightly after some contemplation. "Very screwed up, I know. My best friend is involved in a life-threatening incident and I spend the whole time getting mad at you for saving him."

"Is that all?"

"I guess it also had to do with the fact that I couldn't protect him," he says, a little hesitantly. He rubs the back of his neck repeatedly. "Or you, for that matter, in that moment. I had no control over that situation, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"No, you shouldn't have," she concurs, tilting her head to the left.

"I'm sorry, Maya, I guess sort of lose my common sense when you're involved. It takes me a while to gain it back."

"Huckleberry," she says, the common semi-derisive nature of the nickname has now been transformed into almost pet-name like. There's a smile in her voice. "I messed you up, didn't I?"

"Yes," he says, grinning sheepishly. "You very much did."

"I guess now you know how I felt when you got on that bull?"

You can almost hear the screws turning in his brain as he processes those words. "Huh," he remarks. "I guess I do."

"Would you do it again if you had to relive that moment?"

"I would," he confirms after some contemplation, shifting in his seat. "Would you go off trail to save Farkle again?"

"I would," she echoes, shrugging. "I guess this makes us even."

"I guess it does."

"Well, I'm gonna go to bed," she announces, and then she pauses for a while. "I'm glad we cleared this up."

"Wait!" he manages, his voice choked.

"What?"

When neither of them continues talking, you shift in your position to look at them. Lucas has readily embraced Maya in a hug, circling her waist and resting his head on top of her messy blonde ringlets. "You really scared me today," he explains, voice softened. "The only thing I knew for sure is that I don't want to lose you."

"You're such a sap, Friar," she says with an eye-roll, but she wraps her arms around him and leans into the hug nonetheless. "I'm not going anywhere."

They remain like that for a while—her nestled against his sleeved shirt, him stroking her blonde locks slowly and carefully, almost as if he was counting the strands one by one and she eventually tightens her grip around his waist. It's an oddly intimate gesture, simply because you've never seen this side of them, really. Their previous, occasional hugs were affectionate, sure, but there's vulnerability that you've never seen between the two of them here—it's almost as if he's holding onto her for dear life, and she's  _letting_  him. Neither of them speaks after that, she's the first to lessen her grip and let go. When she meets his gaze, there is a ghost of a smile on her face before she retreats to her assigned room. He watches her walk away and stays in his position for a while before eventually collecting his items and returning to his cabin, as well.

When you recount the incident to Topanga after she finally returns from the dining hall, her groomed eyebrows raise in shock.

"Wow," she says, taking it all in. "That's… new."

"Tell me about it," you say, blowing bubbles into your drink.

.

.

Things prove to be very different when you begin your headcount on the bus the following evening, and you can't help but wonder what happened between the three teens during the day when you were off tending to the needs of your other students for a change. You observe the nature of the current status quo: Smackle is laughing softly as Farkle whispers something into her ear, Riley has fallen asleep on Lucas's shoulder, Josh and Zay are frantically arguing about the contents of the latest issue of a certain sci-fi comic book (which you stray far, far away from), and Maya is sitting at the very back of the bus, going through the contents of her phone.

"Hi, Maya," you say, approaching the blonde. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she replies, without missing a beat, not looking up from her phone. "I'm always fine."

"Are you sure?"

She looks up to meet your gaze, putting her phone down. You notice she's on Spotify.

"I'm sure," she says coolly. She resumes to focusing on her phone.

At the corner of your eye, you see her hands gloss over the settings menu and then a little message pops up on the very center of her screen.

 _Your Man by Josh Turner has been deleted from your playlist_.

_/_

"Cory, promise me you won't go overboard today."

Topanga's voice looms over you as you crouch down to operate your newly-bought barbecue grill, which leads you to slide over and meet her skeptical gaze with an eyebrow raise because how could you  _not_  go overboard—or at least come close to doing so. It's your annual  _Fourth of July_ party—a day filled with music and junk food of all variations. It fills your bones with delight when you reminisce on how it is the one day a year you get to collectively see your family and friends cower over the grills and homemade Slurpees before watching the fireworks. ("That's not true," Pangers would argue, with a hand on her hip. "You get to see them during the holidays in the exact same way.")  _Yes_ , but even so, you only ever celebrate Christmases with the members of your family and don't usually commemorate your New Year's celebrations with them—everyone's usually scattered across the country during that point of the year—so you all evidently miss out on the glorious moment when fireworks illumine the night sky and you get to experience it with the people you hold closest to your heart. Today is an event where you get to celebrate, dance under fireworks  _and_  see your loved ones, so damn it, you  _will_  go overboard.

"I can't do that."

"Well, can you take it a step back from the mess that was last year's celebration?"

You shudder at the memory.

"I can do that."

"I  _hope_  so," she says, begrudgingly pushing the equipment to the area you rented for the celebration. You kiss the side of her head and she light-heartedly shoves you off.

"Dad," pleads Auggie, tugging on your sleeve. "Can Ava and I bring sparklers to the barbecue?"

You cringe. "Sorry buddy, I like my limbs intact."

"We're here!"

"We brought food—"

"—and decorations!"

The group of six arrives at the designated party spot on the dot, hoarding boxes filled with blue, red and white tassels and streamers in one box and food in another. You greet them with a cheerful grin as they assist you with the setup of the equipment—well, Lucas, Zay and Smackle assist you with the technical setup while Farkle, Maya and Riley retreat to setting up the decorations, you particularly enjoy the sea of balloons that they set up across the field. Soon, the area is filled waves of family and friends as you begin attempting to grill hot dogs (and unintentionally burning your fingers in the process). Morgan promptly takes over and you sheepishly hand the spatula over to your little sister. You move over to the desserts bar—now manned gleefully by Auggie and Ava—and take a hearty scoop of periwinkle cotton candy. You observe the scene; Shawn is taking a picture of Katy with his brand new camera, Eric and Joshua are held in an intense arm wrestling match (your parents and Topanga are behind both of them, cheering them on—you're pretty sure your mom bet money on Josh and your dad bet on Eric in the spur of the moment while Topanga assumes the role of the referee), Riley is throwing red, white and blue glitter in celebration every time she hears something remotely similar to the sound of a firework going off, and Farkle and Smackle are sharing a Slurpee by the bleachers. You smile and move over to the nearest table to enjoy some peace as you devour your snack.

"Did you bake this glorious chicken pot pie yourself, Lone Star?"

Maya approaches Lucas at the table next to yours. You hear him chuckle.

"I wish," he says. "I did it with my mom's help. It was kind of like that day we baked with her instructions."

"Ah," she remarks, allowing a half-smile to steal her lips, "With the natural cornucopia of the earth's bounty?"

"Feels like a lifetime ago," remarks Lucas, blowing out a breath. "Doesn't it?"

"Nah," says Maya, placing the pie down on the table. "You're still as just much of a Huckleberry as ever."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"And you're still as much of a Short Stack as ever."

"Thanks, Ranger Rick."

"I'd do just about anything for you, Clutterbucket."

"Just might, Mornin' Glory."

"Okay then, Pancake."

"Ha-hurr!"

Maya's face is inches away from Lucas's, and both of their expressions change once those words leave her pink lips and she leans in. Her cerulean orbs are facing his emerald ones in an intense lock down, which you've learned over time is a rather common occurrence between the two—however,  _this_  time; there are no cunning glances, no eyebrow raises or certainly no narrowing of eyelids. Instead, Maya looks stunned, almost as if she's surprised at herself for getting as close to him as she did, and Lucas sports a similar staggered expression as he examines her face. They continue frozen in that position for a good while, until she backs away from his stare slowly. She gulps and turns on her heel in one swift, fluid motion as she quickly diverts her attention to Farkle and links her arms with the brunet boy before walking away with him. Lucas, however, remains in his position until Riley approaches him merrily and announces that the fireworks are about to go off.

And that snaps you out of your reverie as well.

You find Topanga and join your circle of friends and family once more. Together, you all whoop and holler as streaks of ruby, navy and silver slice through the starless night sky. You momentarily wonder why you assigned Eric the role of the D.J. when he blasts  _Party in the U.S.A_ from the music booth you rented for one night and you sigh deeply. But the song does prove to have a positive effect on the younger generation; Maya and Zay collectively lead a very jovial Riley by the hand to the middle of the field to sing along to the lyrics, Auggie and Ava jump around to the tune, Farkle breaks out into robot moves with Smackle who giggles halfway through, however Lucas is nowhere to be found for the next half hour or so. Whatever that moment that occurred between the two blonde-haired teens must have sparked  _something_  that spurred a rather significant level of discomfort between them, since they seem to make a point of avoiding one another when Lucas eventually returns.

And you cannot for the life of you figure out  _why_.

_/_

Your living room has, once again, turned into a war zone. This time, however, it's due to Riley and Maya, with the Friar boy nowhere in sight.

"I don't wanna go tonight."

"Maya, this is Sophomore Prom we're talking about—you  _have_  to go."

"I don't even have a dress, Riley."

"You can borrow one of mine!"

"I don't even have a date."

"You don't need a date to go."

"Only people with dates would say that."

You take a swing of your coffee as you fix your bowtie in the mirror while the brunette teen stands with a hand on her hip as she stares down at her friend, pausing to blow intensely on her half-dried nails. "It's not like you didn't have any offers," she states, walking over to the dishevelled blonde sprawled on the couch. "I distinctly recall  _several_  guys tripping over themselves to get you to go with them."

"I'm not obligated to accept offers if I don't like who's giving them."

"That's very true," she readily concurs. "But lately you don't seem to like  _anyone_. Ever since you and Josh decided to stop waiting around for one another, your usually raging hormones have been perpetually inactive."

"Riley," says Maya, barely looking up from the tub of Cookies & Cream. "I'm fine. I'll just chill here till you get back."

"I'm not going if you don't."

That clearly strikes a chord in Maya; you can tell from the way she throws her head back and slams the dairy condiment on the table, so she stands up and blows out a heavy breath. "Fine," she says, with a huff. "I will go. I will dance with boys and keep you away from spiked punch and let Farkle spin me around the room before reminiscing on our final year as sophomores in the hellhole we call high school."

"That's the spirit!"

So that's how Maya ends up in a lilac dress that sweeps the floor and a full face of makeup, complete with expertly curled locks, in the middle of the gymnasium. You give her a congratulatory smile from across the. She grins before redirecting her attention to an enamored raven-haired boy whose name escapes you. She flashes him a smile before she brushes him off to the beverage table, where you are on serve duty, before pouring her a dose of suspicious-looking green fruit punch (seriously, you should look into that).

"Maya," you hear Lucas say, from the back. "Hi."

"Ranger Rick!" she greets, smilingly. "You look like more of a Huckleberry than usual. That's a good thing." She fiddles with his black tie and he offers her a sheepish smile.

"You look," he begins, eyes fixated on her hands, "really good. Um, I mean you look better than good, like  _fantastically_  good, that's what I mean."

"Yeah, I've got Riley to thank for that," she states blankly, scanning the room. "Speaking of which, where is the Promzilla herself?"

"Promzilla?" asks Lucas, baffled. "She hasn't exactly been as excited as I thought she'd be."

"Really?" she responds. "She was pretty excited back home."

As if on cue, the brunette approaches the table with furrowed eyebrows. She wiggles through the crowd of teenagers and smiles when she finds the three of you at the beverage bar. She flicks a flint off her red sweetheart dress before making her way over, stopping to grab Maya's arm.

"Hi honey," you say, lifting the spoon in mid-air. "Want some punch?"

"No thanks, Dad," she responds, turning to the Friar boy. "Uh, Lucas, do you mind if I talk to Maya privately?"

"Not at all," he says, offering a smile before walking away. Riley turns to face the blonde.

"Is everything ok?"

"When you were me," she says, intensely searching Maya's marine lenses. "When you were me, how did you feel?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did you feel for Lucas when you were me?"

The silence that ensues between them speaks volumes. You shift uncomfortably in your position as you continue to hold up your spoonful of punch.

"I don't know, Riles, it was sort of like falling into the ocean?"

"Falling into the ocean?"

"Yeah, like," she explains, stumbling with her words slightly. "It happens before you know it, like you're in the middle of it before you realize that you began? It's sort of all-consuming; it blinds you when it crashes into you in waves. You can't see or think straight. That's how we felt."

Riley is silent, pensive, for a good while before responding, "Yeah, except that's not how we felt. That's how  _you_  felt."

"How did you feel?"

"Well, it wasn't like falling into an ocean," she says, after a pause. "Maybe it was like a puddle, or even falling and getting back up?"

"So, you're telling me that—"

"Your feelings were different from mine, yes," says Riley. She pauses, reconsiders, and then she quietly adds, "Probably still are."

You turn to face Maya, who is, like you, taking all of this information in. She is silent, rubbing her nails together, almost as if she's nervous. Then, she stops and shakes her head profusely. "Riles, regardless, he chose  _you_."

"Yeah, after you told him that you were me this whole time and that your feelings for him were misconstrued," she flatly points out, crossing her arms. "I was wrong, Maya. I thought I dissected the situation perfectly, but I guess I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

"So… what happens now?"

"I can't tell either of you what to do," admits Riley, taking her first swig of punch. She makes a face. "I've been doing that for too long. You guys need to figure that out on your own, at your own pace and of your own free will. And, well, I need to  _let_  you."

Maya bites the insides of her mouth and then presses her glossed lips together. "What about you and Lucas?"

Riley reaches out and squeezes her hand, offering her best friend a small smile. "I think he knows that things between us haven't quite been the same since," she says, linking her fingers with Maya's. "And it is okay, it really is." The blonde meets her gaze and embraces her in a quick hug. "Enjoy the rest of your night."

The Hart girl retreats from the embrace, squeezes Riley's hand and says, "You too." She then returns to the dance floor, not before lifting her red cup in salutation to you, to the dance floor.

"You did good, kid," you tell her, whose eyes are fixated on the crowd of bright-eyed teenagers.

"Don't you mean well?" she asks you, stirring her drink with a plastic fork. You grin.

"No," you say. "I mean good."

She returns your smile.

_/_

"Hold still!"

"I swear, Sundance, if you drop me I  _will_  kill you."

Lucas steadies Maya's legs as she sits on top of his shoulders. She wobbles slightly, and he tightens his grip. The two are among the rest of the group that chose to assist Riley in decorating the Matthews's Christmas tree. It ends with her ruffling his hair as she places her hands on the top of his head and protesting when he begins light-heartedly swinging her from side to side, but she's eventually laughs halfway way through (not before hitting the back of his head with her palm, however, and telling him  _slow your horses or we will both go down swinging_ ). He finally stabilizes, and she is able to place the miniature golden star carefully onto the top of the tree. It's subtle—lingering, firm, the way she holds onto his hand when he puts her down and how she redirects her grip to onto his arm as she attempts to find her balance, and how he redirects his gaze to her hand and the area where it's on his skin, almost as if he can't believe she's holding his hand. She remains oblivious to this; however, as her mouth curves into a bright smile when she glances at the shining star and excitedly declares, "We did it!"

"Great," you say as you begin making adjustments to put the rubicund wreath on your door. "Now you can help us set up the  _other_  decorations."

"Not before we exchange Christmas presents!" declares Riley, incurring a collective groan from the rest of the gang. "What?"

"How many more Secret Santa's do we have to endure?" asks Smackle, sighing deeply.

"For till college," Farkle responds with a half-smile, taking the dark-haired girl's hand as they walk over to the couch.

"Okay," says Riley, with an exceptionally merry grin. "Does everyone have their gifts?"

"Yes," they glumly echo in unison.

"Then let's get givin'!"

You begin attaching the hook onto the door as you position it.  _It can't be too high like last year_ , you think to yourself. You adjust it accordingly.  _It can't be too low, like the year before_.

"Oh my god," you hear Maya say. "Now, I wonder who got me  _this_." At the corner of your eye, you see her holding up a pink cowboy hat up as she turns to meet the Friar boy's gaze. "I'm assuming it was you, Soarin' Eagle, because who the hell else would."

"Ever since I found out you happen to have Southern roots," he explains, smilingly. "I figured you should have one of your own."

It leads to silence and you expect her to cluck her tongue and throw in a snarky remark, but instead, she genuinely  _smiles_ —the kind that reaches the tips of her eyes, and she tilts her head as she says, "Thank you, Huckleberry."

"You're welcome, Huckleberry."

"Don't push it."

For a moment, they exchange smiles before she breaks eye contact to look down at the pink cowboy hat—it looks brand new, the golden tassels glimmering underneath the florescent lighting in your abode and the shade complements her well when she places it on her head and tips her hat at him. His grin broadens when she does so.

"Well, ain't that sweet?" comments Zay, grinning cheekily. "But Lucas, need I remind you that you're the only person who has not opened their gift?"

"Oh right," says Lucas, fumbling over the wrapping paper. He eventually uncovers a black knitted sweater with two identical reindeer plastered on the front, both separated by a single snowflake. It's woolly and frankly looks rather itchy, but it also starkly reminds you of the sweaters Mark Darcy constantly sported during the  _Bridget Jones' Diary_  films—you sigh deeply as you recall Topanga forcing you to sit through the films and having her swoon over the fictional love interest alongside Angela, so you close your eyes to suppress the daunting memory as you turn away from the sweater.

"Ah!" squeals Riley. "It's a Mark Darcy sweater!"

She certainly is her mother's daughter.

"The horror," you remark.

"This comes with an explanation!" proclaims Maya, in between laughs. "Since Riles put us through countless  _Bridget Jones_ movie marathons and made us read all the books," she stops to narrow her eyes at the brunette who only smiles gleefully in response, "and we always said that you were the livelier present-day American Mark Darcy, I decided you needed your own Christmas sweater to match the honorary title." She smiles brightly, gesturing to the sweater. "Also, I took the time to knit it myself. So, what do you think?"

"I love it," he genuinely answers. "I'm gonna wear it all the time."

"Oh, I bet you will," she responds with a chuckle.

Lucas Friar is nothing if not a man of his word, you quickly learn, when Christmas break ends, and he does indeed wear the sweater to school. He wears it under his Letterman jackets, over his gym clothes, underneath his hoodies on particularly cold days—hell, you begin wondering if he threw his  _other_  non-holiday themed sweaters away in favor for the one in question. This act is not lost on the rest of the Abigail Adams High population, particularly the Hart girl, who finally leans over during your History class one day to tell the Friar boy, "You're making me regret knitting that sweater. How much longer are you going to wear it?"

He merely shrugs with a grin.

_/_

"I know what you did."

These are the first words you say to your daughter, who you meet at the school library after hours. For a moment, you do stop to notice the familiarity of the surroundings, taking to account that you were in a similar location many years ago. Time has not altered the circumstances of the situation too much, you conclude, as you note that it involves the same boy, however now with a very different girl, and you are enlisting the help of the other half of the inseparable duo. Riley raises a neat eyebrow, puzzled, as she leans against the dusty bookshelf.

"What'd I do?"

"You rigged Secret Santa," you state, as-a-matter-of-factly, while you cross your arms in disdain as you watch Riley's almond eyes widen. "I know you were in charge of the ballots. I found compromising evidence that displays three different containers under the kitchen table last night—one of the hats only contained ballots with Maya's name on it, the other only contained ballots with Lucas's name and the final container contained the names of the rest of your group of friends."

"You can't prove anything," she responds, without missing a beat.

 _Typical_.

"As your father and teacher, I'd know your handwriting any day," you tell her, narrowing your eyes. "So, unless Veronica Sawyer lives among us, I'm pretty sure I just proved it."

"Look," the brunette explains, rolling up her sleeves. "I know that I said they should get together by their own free will and at their pace, but they were taking too long; I had to do  _something_  to speed the process to preserve my own sanity." So, she pauses in between her sentences and presses her lips together. "Admittedly, it was a little seedy, but I did what I had to do."

"Ok," you eventually say, with a nod. Her almond eyes widen.

"Ok?" she echoes, voice coated with incredulity. "That's it? I expected you to give me a lecture about the perils of scheming."

"I won't," you firmly assure her. "I just have one condition."

"What's the catch?"

"You let me in on your latest plan."

"Uh," she says, blinking owlishly. "Why?"

"Well, for starters,  _my_  own sanity."

.

.

"Why did you invite me here?"

" _You_  invited me."

"No, I didn't."

You're hiding in the supply closet with Katy, Riley and Topanga as the four of you press your ears against the door. While admittedly holed up in a insufferably dusty room in  _Topanga's_  is not the ideal way to spend your New Year's Eve, you have succumbed to the nature of events—wherein the plan was initially shared exclusively between you and Riley, which then spread to Pangers after much interrogation, and finally landed in the lap of Katy, which led to the four of you in the confines of a tiny closet and listening on the conversation between the two of the most obstinate blonde-haired teens you've ever encountered. Slowly, you lean over as Topanga opens the door slightly to enable vision into the lobby.

"Well," says Maya, with her arms crossed. "My mom told me you said you needed my help packing and locking the store for the night, which is suspicious considering it's been closed all day."

"I found a letter in my bag last night, signed by you, telling me to come to  _Topanga's_  at this specific time."

This Lucas says, his voice considerably hardened, as he waves a white envelope in the air. Maya furrows her eyebrows together in disbelief, snatching the paper out of his hands. "I didn't write this," she states, scanning the paper violently, "Even though I do appreciate the solid effort to mimic my handwriting."

The corners of Riley's mouth curve into a self-congratulatory smile.

"I tried to confirm it with you before, but you weren't answering any of my calls or texts."

"I can't find my phone," Maya explains, gesturing accordingly. "I haven't been able to since yesterday, so I never got them."

Katy merrily wiggles the phone in question from behind the door.

"It looks like we've been set up."

"Looks like we have," she concurs, heaving a deep breath. "This has Riley Matthews written  _all_  over it."

"No doubt about that."

"I should go," the Hart girl states, as she tosses the pair of keys on the counter. "And you probably should too."

"Wait!" he pipes up, running swiftly towards the blonde. "Riley wouldn't make us come here for no reason."

"I'm sure she has a wonderful reason," she replies, clearly frazzled. "But if we know anything about our favorite brunette is that she has a flair for the dramatic. If she wanted us to talk she should have just told us to."

"She knows us too well," Lucas responds, with a shrug. "She knows we'd avoid talking about it."

"Well maybe that's because there's nothing to say."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think there was anything to say."

"Lucas—"

"I'll throw in the towel, okay?" the Friar boy offers, without missing a beat. "I've been thinking, well I'm always thinking, but I've finally come to the conclusion that the reason why I do things like not being able to talk to you after that moment on the Fourth or the fact that I couldn't help but wear that sweater you made me every day is because I never got over you."

 _This_  silences her, stuns her into stopping in her tracks. She doesn't look up to face him; instead she fixates her eyes on the door, almost as if she's waiting for him to step into further dangerous territories that will push her out. He sees this and walks towards her, grabbing her shoulders and swiftly turning so that she meets his gaze. By way of reply, she bites the insides of her mouth and he continues speaking. "Judging from the Fourth of July party, I don't think you're over it either."

"Is that so?" she asks, her eyes flaring wildly. Quickly, she wriggles free from his grasp and reaches deep into her pocket. Then, she lifts her hand slowly and throws a crushed object in Lucas's hand. The Texan boy furrows his eyebrows together as he twirls it through the palm of his hand, observing it slowly.

"This," he says, after a beat. "This is a crumpled piece of paper."

"That I stored."

"…I'm lost."

"Open it."

And so, he does.

"It's a crumpled piece of paper with my name on it?"

"Yep," she responds. Lucas furrows his eyebrows together once more.

"Uh, Maya, I don't get it."

"I wrote it two years ago," she clarifies, crossing her arms to her chest. "That day in History class when Mr. Matthews told us to record something that we believed was impossible to get, I wrote your name." The Hart girl stops to evaluate his now softened expression before she continues. "Ever since the fourth, I've been carrying it in my pocket. I figured I needed a refresher after that night."

"Maya—"

"You and me, we don't work," says Maya, in between breaths. "We  _can't_  work. We tried and, guess what, it didn't work."

"Why are you so hell-bent on believing that?"

"I self-sabotage  _everything_ ," she tells him, nearly snarls as she says it. "I can't even help it. I think that's what I've been doing since I first met you. All the nicknames and pokes at your Southern heritage—I'm trying to drive you away so why do you like it?"

"Do you think I like you because you make fun of me?"

Lucas's voice hardens as he says this, and Maya lets out a deep breath. "Wasn't that why this whole thing started?"

"I don't like you because you make fun of me. I let you make fun of me because I like you."

"Yeah," she says with a mirthless chuckle, voice colored with cynicism. "I've heard it before, you like me despite the reckless tendencies and the smart mouth—"

"Not despite anything," he quickly intervenes, words slurred together in a nervous rush. "I like you just as you are."

A silence ensues between the two of them quickly, until Maya breaks it with a soft, "I don't know how to say it back." She takes a deep breath and then, "I keep trying to push you away because I'm scared. The last time I went against my better judgment, it kind of went up in flames. How can I be sure it won't happen again?"

"We can't be sure of anything," says Lucas, gingerly linking his fingers with hers. "But we can hope that we're smarter and wiser than we were. And that we owe it to ourselves to at least try, to give it our best shot. I know I will because there's no way I'm letting you go again. And if you're willing to try, that's enough for me."

 _Taught him well_ , you think to yourself as you shift uncomfortably in your position, noticing that everybody else is watching with bated breath as well. Looking at the two teens, you allow yourself to smile ever so slightly.

"Okay," replies Maya, with a slow nod.

"Okay," echoes Lucas, inching towards the Hart girl. "So, why don't you just hit me with your best shot?"

She lets out a watery chuckle. "It would be my pleasure," her mouth curves into a small smile. "For starters, you get sappier every time I see you."

"I'm aware."

"—and at times you are a Debby downer."

"I agree."

"Wait a minute," says Topanga, perplexed. "Is this how she expresses endearment?"

"Oddly enough I think it is," you respond quickly. "It's sort of her thing—it's kind of like she's speaking in a foreign language protected by a force field no outsider can penetrate."

"I can vouch for that," Katy concurs, voice no louder than a hushed whisper.

"And," she looks down and stares at their linked fingers, "just as you are, you do make me happy."

"So?" he asks, with a gleeful smile.

"So," she takes a glance at her watch and says, "It's one minute to midnight."

"I'm glad you're standing here," he finishes, circling her waist.

A deep smile steals Maya's lips as she meets his gaze, he responds by pressing his nose tentatively against hers. Their faces are quickly illuminated by the streaks of red and gold fireworks slicing through the sky that signal the arrival of a new year, and so he draws her closer and fuses his lips with hers. Her hooked grip around his neck tightens and she deepens the kiss, entangling her hands in his shaggy hair as she, slowly but surely, allows her heart to be displayed on her sleeve.

"We did it," whispers Riley, a small smile plastered over her face as Maya tosses the piece of paper into the trash. "We're geniuses."

"Geniuses indeed," Katy concurs gleefully. "And while I am happy that she's allowing herself to be happy, I'd rather not witness Lucas sticking his tongue down my daughter's throat."

"Backdoor exit," you quickly suggest, upon seeing that Lucas and Maya have moved on to the couch. " _Please_."

.

.

It's the little things—you conclude.

She falls asleep on his shoulder twice during the night, both times after she declares that she will be able to make it through the entire night without dozing off. Riley has invited the rest of her friends to binge movies to celebrate the new year, and halfway through the first two movies—both Hepburn classics, the frazzled brunette sharply reminds her friend—she tumbles on the couch and her head slides into the crook of Lucas's neck. He responds by resting his head on top of hers. The act is not lost among the rest of the group; there are many side-glances and hushed snickers, to which the Friar boy responds by glaring daggers and whispering, "you're gonna wake her up!" repeatedly. Still, she doesn't budge, and he relaxes in her presence.

In the moments that Maya does eventually awaken, she often finds that the others are too intently watching the film to notice. However, Lucas always does, and he gives her a small smile.

"Stop looking at me like that," you catch her whispering to him at four a.m. in the morning, when everybody has fallen asleep and you sneak out for your surreptitious middle-of-the-night snack.

"Like what?" he asks, voice slurred and a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Like  _that_."

"I'm always going to look at you like this," he responds, choosing to close his eyes as he drifts off to sleep.

So, in that moment, you witness a small,  _shy_  smile curving the Hart girl's mouth, in an exceptional moment of bashfulness, and you decide that miracles do happen. And you realize that love isn't complicated at all, that the two blondes who've entered your life aren't as thorny as they appear to be on the surface, and that they've taught you while you were teaching them. You smile before retreating back to your room, embracing the fact that as the new year emerges, there are new obstacles to come, but everybody does owe it to themselves to try.

There's just one thing left to do.

_/_

"Maya  _and_  Lucas?" Shawn asks, gasping after scorching his tongue with hot coffee upon being told the news. "How did you know?"

You calmly take a sip of your hibiscus tea, slowly dipping the teabag repeatedly into the liquid. "I heard it through the grapevine."

. _  
_.


End file.
